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Overcome with disgust and fear and pure, animal heebie-jeebies, Sir Fred -
- the indomitable hero who had once saved the ratty peasants of Parsley-
upon-Mildew from the evil Blood Belchers of Vampyre Cove; who had
delivered the beautiful (and ultimately quite grateful) Daughters of
Hosanna from the vile and unseemly enchantments of the wicked
Spellmaster, Fetishon; and who had, just this morning, set out to slay an
honest-to-goodness fire-breathing dragon with little more than the armour
on his back and his trusty, rusty sword -- begins running in small,
chaotic circles and loops around the dimly lit cavern, waving his hands
frantically in front of him, and screaming like a little wench. "Oh gross! Ew! Ugh! Icky, icky, icky!" yells Sir Fred, too caught up in his panic to be thankful that his beautiful Maid Gwendolyn is not here to see this. "Gah! Bleh! Gross! Gross! Gross!" he adds, continuing his blind, circuitous charge to nowhere. Inevitably, his armoured toe catches an unseen rock in the darkness and Sir Fred topples, arse over codpiece, to the uneven floor below. The impact knocks the wind out of him, cutting off his high-pitched rantings with an even higher-pitched squeak, and causing everything around him to flash white before fading into deep, soft darkess.
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4/14/2009 8:41:49 AM
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